Voices
by Leopardheart-Naux-Kadaj
Summary: Elena Deerwood is an ordinary person, normal life, blah blah blah. Until she finds out that she can understand Enochian and can see angels' true forms without y'know, going blind or deaf. On the run before being locked up, she has to battle demons, wicked angels, and people who disbelieve her story because this shit isn't normal. Also, Castiel is an asshole


Warnings for the entire story, instead of doing it beforehand in each chapter. Because I'll probably miss something along the way-I mean, if a chapter suddenly contains sex or a suicide attempt or something, I'm definitely gonna warn you but. No warnings on everything every chapter. Because I just don't got time for that shit. I probably won't do A/N, either, unless necessary, so.. If any of these trigger you, or you don't like them, then this story isn't for you.

Just a preface; just because my character does something, doesn't mean I do it nor do I endorse it (meaning ableism, suicide, self-harm.)

Content/Trigger Warnings:  
+Swearing/adult language  
+Psychiatric wards/hospitalization  
+Ableism/ableist language  
+Suicidal talks/actions (both in passing and not)  
+Self-injury (both in passing and not)  
+Queerness/queer character  
+possibly NSFW

General Content Warning/Preface:/p  
Fan Character/Original Character  
Slightly AU  
Season 4/5

* * *

I don't know how things spiraled out of control so quickly or intensely. At one point, somewhere that felt like a far-off dream that was elusive and unreachable, it was a normal life. Normal, boring, lame college life. I didn't ask for anything – I didn't ask to be extravagant or special or whatever. I just wanted to graduate and have a job and a life… I wanted to be like all the other girls – I didn't ask to be locked up. I didn't ask for this messed-up blurry life… I didn't ask for this… I didn't…/p

"Shut up, already," said a harsh, warden-like nurse from outside my locked door. He must have been annoyed with my apparent ramblings.

It was just so damn lonely in this bland white room with its white walls and white linoleum floor and white-sheeted beds and neat little shaped items in the square room, with the memories of the last four hectic months swirling around in this messed-up brain of mine. This silence was echoing so deafeningly inside my head I suppose I just forgot how to think inside it without speaking or moving my lips. Everything had to be out loud to be proof it was real, somehow tangible and firm even if it was stupid. It needed to occupy this mute, empty room surrounding me like a sheet, a sheet of death. It was foreboding and suffocating and driving me into the insanity they accused me of.

"I shouldn't even be in here… I'm not crazy! There's nothing wrong with me!" I shouted back through the door, uneven bitten nails clutching my skin beneath a white jacket. Not an actual white/strait jacket for people in old asylums from the fifties but a literal white button-up coat – can't be trusted with hoodie strings or zippers, and all.

"Not crazy my ass," he sneered, his Southern accent prominent in the last word. "The angel was real right? And you talked to him, right? He said you were so special. Yeah, you're special all right."

He started laughing at me. I could tell he was the condescending atheist type. I had been too, once, back in that life that I can't seem to reach anymore. Before all this, this stupid, crazy fucked-up, film-worthy mess had started. I didn't believe in anything; why should I? What proof did I have? And then suddenly, everything was real and there was physical proof to be touched and heard and seen and I was awestruck. It was almost funny, in a sad, sarcastic way; I actually became a believer in this thing I've been told I was supposed to believe my whole life, yet no one would listen to me for two seconds.I suppose they think I'm schizophrenic or something. Something that demands permanent lock-up. I've been locked up before. Twice. (Of course the hospital had been much kinder, gentler and more colorful because I'd been an adolescent, not an adult. They're not kidding when people say that psychiatric wards are not fun for adults.) I'd been called then, I'd been missed then. I was still me, damaged and all.

But this time… It was different. My family hasn't called; my friends haven't tried to contact me. I've been alone. Not a letter. Not a visit. Nothing. Did they not want me anymore? Was that it? Did they think I was so insane that I was never coming back from the deep end?

Fuck. Now my chest ached with this unbearable pain; this sense of abandonment cutting me deeper than anything has before. I tried to push this out of my mind; I couldn't think of this. Not now, not in this white suffocating loneliness that threatened to drag me under.

"Castiel said he wouldn't abandon me… Angels are _douchebags_," I thought, realizing too late I was once more speaking aloud.

Castiel was what could be called, a trigger word. I suppose, due to earlier happenings, that I deserved to be "treated" when his name was said. The doctor came in, holding a syringe filled with sedatives and approached me. I almost sighed; I nearly was expecting it by this point. I stopped fighting the doctors after a couple of weeks. Well, stopped physically fighting.

"Tsk, tsk, I thought you were finally letting go of this Castiel, Elena. You were on the way to recovery," the doctor said with what sounded like a sympathetic tone. I could never tell with psychiatric doctors; everything seemed plastic and fake.

Dammit. That shit always seemed to set me off.

"I'm not fucking crazy! You didn't see what I saw, you weren't there! He was real, and his wings are black and marvelous and –" Of course, my tangent was cut short.

My tongue felt thick and heavy and I couldn't seem to move my jaw. My eyelids drooped and everything was going _I'm not… I'm not done speaking… You have to understand… please…_


End file.
